


When I Let You Down

by like_a_dove_19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John is Angry, F/M, Other, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Unresolved Tension, reunionlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_a_dove_19/pseuds/like_a_dove_19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back after his two year absence and plans to announce his return by dropping in on John's dinner date. John is angry. Sherlock just wants to get back to work. Mary is confused (this isn't really about her though).</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Let You Down

**Author's Note:**

> After the first Series 3 teaser trailer, I couldn't stop thinking about how Sherlock and John's reunion in a restaurant could play out. (Really, Sherlock? A restaurant?) Anyway, this fic is the result of my brain not shutting up about it, as well as my deep desire to see my favorite consulting detective back with his blogger/doctor/soldier/soulmate.
> 
> Be warned: It's not been beta'd or Brit-picked. 
> 
> The title is from Taking Back Sunday's "Faith (When I Let You Down)"

Sherlock Holmes silently sits down in the empty chair across from Dr. John Watson, easily deducing but not at all caring that this seat has been designated for a date who has yet to arrive. He opens his mouth to speak before immediately closing it back, the sight of his long-missed friend dislodging the thoroughly prepared speech from his usually ironclad memory. (Sherlock makes a quick mental note to examine the causes of this unacceptable breach in his mind palace later on.)

John looks up from the wine glass he has just placed gently on the table after draining its contents, and finds not his girlfriend but his two-years-dead best friend peering back at him. He stares wide-eyed at the once dead consulting detective, not speaking, not moving, not realizing he's holding his breath. John’s frozen state spurs Sherlock into motion and he finally finds words. "Okay. You've got questions,” he tries quietly, hoping the phrase he used en route to John’s first crime scene all those years ago will break the ice. However, only John’s stunned trance is broken and the ex-army doctor unleashes his own personal brand of tea-fueled, mustachioed rage, launching himself across the table at Sherlock.

Sherlock allows John to get in one hard, swift left hook before simply uttering " _John_ ,” his voice still a bit quiet but deeper now and unable to keep out the emotion, the _sentiment_. John's fist freezes in the air behind his own silvery-blonde head where it has been reared back for another swing, and his whispered reply, " _Sher_ lock," is much more gentle and breathless than he would like. Saying the name aloud to the man himself for the first time in an eternity of two years has stolen all the air from John's lungs and cooled the fire of his rage. His left arm drops, his right hand releases it's grip on Sherlock's lapel and John slumps back in his seat digging his fingertips into his now closed eyes.

Sherlock straightens first his jacket, then his cuffs, and dabs a napkin at the blood flowing freely from his split lip but says nothing as to allow John a moment to collect himself. Sherlock takes a second as well to better study the doctor, his sharp gray eyes observing John’s recent change in weight, the deepened lines around his expressive blue eyes, and the bewildering presence of a thick, neatly groomed mustache. He smells a woodsy new cologne, notes a shiny, new watch (recently received as a gift as John would _never_ spend that kind of money on a watch) and is oddly comforted by the familiar sight of John’s nicest shoes, which John had always reserved for dates with whatever woman he had managed to pick up of late.

The consulting detective has spent weeks anticipating this reunion certain in his belief that he can predict exactly how his once and future blogger will react to learning the truth, such as what punches he will attempt to throw and what he will say in his surprise and anger and, hopefully, his relief. Sherlock has _not_ anticipated his own trembling hands, the difficulty in keeping his voice level, the uneasiness in his gut or the emotion currently threatening to beat his heart right out of his wiry chest. His own state of shock, however slight, at reuniting in the flesh with the truest friend he has ever had the unexpected-but-delighted pleasure to call his own has not occurred to him until this very moment. A quick perusal of the dark and dusty room in his mind palace labeled “Emotions, Feelings and Otherwise Sentimental Lark” informs him that what he feels is _nervous_. It is most unpleasant.

As John mentally instructs his lungs to inhale deeply and slowly, his jumbled thoughts spread out and become more coherent. Like lightning, the realization hits him that this is **actually** happening, that Sherlock Holmes is _alive_ and bleeding on the other side of the table after two years spent ridiculously clinging to the childish hope that _some_ how, _some_ way The World's Only Consulting Detective could actually manage answering John's request to be not dead. The indisputable reality that Sherlock has come back to John through some inconceivable miracle to sit here giving him those fucking wounded puppy eyes leaves the doctor unable to decide if he should jump for joy or throttle his former flatmate. He chooses to ignore an obvious third option which would involve having himself restrained and chucked in a room with padded walls where he would mutter to himself about pompous, gray-eyed ghosts while rocking back and forth, possibly sucking his thumb.

As he considers what to do next, what to _say_ , John's rage is stoked once more as all of the buried pain of the past two years has just been violently woken from its dormancy and is bitterly shouting in John's head that he has been deceived in the worst possible way by the person he trusted most. John takes another moment to steady his breathing before attempting to speak. "Two fucking years, Sherlock. I thought you were dead, that I'd never.... You jumped off Bart's, Sherlock, I _saw_ you. You were lying on the pavement, you didn’t have a bloody _pulse_." He is keeping his face carefully composed now, his jaw squared, but Sherlock can still see the acrid ghost of grief and soul-crushing loneliness in John’s cobalt eyes and the tight, thin line of his mouth. Ever the keen observer, Sherlock recognizes in his friend’s face what he has seen in the mirrored reflection of his own pale features for most of his life but especially these last two years in which Sherlock has never felt more alone, more isolated. The self-proclaimed sociopath may prefer to distance himself from emotion but he is certainly no stranger to how dark the twisty depths of loneliness can be.

Sherlock speaks urgently now and just manages to keep the plea out of his voice as he explains "You saw me jump, yes. However, you did not see me hit the ground. You saw what I _wanted_ you to see, John. You had to believe I was dead."

"For **_what_**?!" John nearly shouts, lowering his voice only because the restaurant’s other patrons have been eyeing them both already and the manager does not seem pleased at the disturbance. "Was it to prove you're bloody _clever_? Well congratulations, Sherlock, because you sure fucking fooled me. **Me** , the ONE person who still believed in you. How could you let me go on thinking you were dead? Never knowing _why_ you threw yourself off of a building? Constantly replaying every moment of those last few days, thinking that maybe I had missed some obvious sign that you...that you were...that I could have _done_ something." John shakes his head, takes yet another deep breath. "I trusted you, Sherlock.... I thought you trusted me, too." He rubs a hand over his tired face and then resettles in his chair crossing his arms over his chest.

This time when Sherlock speaks, his deep voice cracks with the effort of trying to keep it steady under the weight of the emotional burdens he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge while parted from his dear friend. “I did, John. I _do_ , but you had to believe I was dead until I could be absolutely certain you were safe. You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson." John's confused face silently extracts further explanation from Sherlock, whose voice is gaining it’s familiar, breakneck speed. "Moriarty, he.... He had assassins positioned to kill each of you unless I left that rooftop in the manner that I did. I had surmised that he'd want me to commit suicide as the grand finale in his wretched tale of the disgraced, fraudulent genius—after we left Kitty Riley’s where we found out about the ‘actor’ Richard Brook, remember?—but I had no idea about the snipers until I lured him onto the roof, John. The three of you would have died if I had not. I had no other choice, please believe me." John searches Sherlock's face for something to betray his description of events even while his instincts tell him that they are true. Moriarty had been more than capable of ordering a few quick sniper hits and had certainly been hell-bent on destroying Sherlock’s entire existence. The psychotic consulting criminal had wanted to “burn the heart out” of Sherlock, for whom nothing was dearer than The Work which Moriarty’s elaborate ruse had put an abrupt end to. Naturally, Sherlock had figured out how Moriarty’s tale would end and had devised a plan accordingly.

“Sherlock,” John begins evenly, determined to get out all of his grievances before the ever increasing joy of having his best friend back can render them void, “if you had just…. Clearly, you had help staging your death, yeah? Someone _had_ to have helped you or there wouldn’t be an official, signed death certificate or an empty coffin in the ground under a bloody headstone with your name on it while you walk around living and breathing. Why couldn’t you have come to _me_ for help? We could have come up with a plan _together,_ Sherlock. One that didn’t end with…. Instead, you… You left me in the dark, as bloody fucking usual.” John finishes with a great sigh.

This conversation isn’t turning out how Sherlock had planned. Emotions are running high and crowding out reason. Sherlock’s urgency morphs into frustration now, his nervousness long gone. “John, as I have told you, you _had_ to think—,” “That you were dead. Yes, Sherlock, you’ve said,” John cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’re _completely_ missing the point here.”

The undead detective frowns, “John, I...,” before being interrupted again by an increasingly exasperated ex-army doctor, “It wasn’t the first time you didn’t bother to let me in on one of your _plans_ , Sherlock. You claim to trust me, yet you.… You think you have to do everything _alone_ , and keep everything to yourself but you don’t. You just don’t. That’s the point of having _friends_. Even if said friends don’t share your…,” John nearly rolls his tired eyes right out of his head, “your _massive_ _intellect_.”

Watching Sherlock’s damned puppy eyes flicker back and forth in thought—likely seeking an excuse for his own insistence on keeping his clever plans to himself only to dramatically reveal them at the last minute, the supercilious bastard—John’s attention snaps to another grievance that has been waiting patiently in the back of his mind since Sherlock turned up rather alive and well. “And, actually, Sherlock, where the _fuck_ have you been for two years? Surely Moriarty’s hired guns haven’t stuck around this long, especially as the maniac ate his _own_ gun.” For this, the detective has an answer and a few accompanying wild hand gestures, “I was making sure Moriarty hadn’t left a second-in-command to continue tearing down my existence or that of everyone I knew. I had to be sure it was _over._ John, you wouldn’t _believe_ the things I discovered about our dearly departed psychopath. You’ve no idea how vast and intricate his web really was and still _is_.”

“Right,” John heaves a great sigh again, raises his eyebrows. “Well, you have fun tearing that web down. I’m actually waiting for someone, so if you could…,” He gestures toward the door, casting his eyes in any direction but that of Sherlock who has enough audacity, or perhaps an exceeding lack of self-awareness, to look affronted. “John, you know I will require your assistance. We have much work to do and we’ll need to get started immediately.” Before Sherlock can continue, John nearly shrieks, “You _can’t_ be serious." Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and tilts his head slightly, more agitated than confused. "Problem?" "Did you really think you could just waltz back into my life after I’ve spent two years thinking my best…that you were _dead,_ and that we would just go back to running around solving cases as if fucking nothing has happened? As if nothing has _changed_? I’ve only just got my life back in order after….” The doctor’s argument loses steam and his voice trails off as he attempts to preserve what little bit of energy he has left. The tangle of emotions in his chest is draining him and he still has a dinner date to get through, preferably in a brighter mood.

Sherlock’s frown returns, followed by his uneasiness. He had predicted there would be some difficulty in John’s ability to forgive him, but he hadn’t anticipated resistance to returning to their previous partnership, their _friendship_. “John, I realize that I’ve just given you a lot to take in but, really, what has changed? We lost two years but there’s still The Work and I need you—,” his brow furrows as John’s sharp tone and icy glare cut him off, “ _You didn’t need me the last two bloody years_.”

As the detective flounders for words, a woman approaches the table, sees Sherlock and freezes, visibly going pale as though she is seeing a ghost. “John, what…?” She asks gently, casting the fuming doctor a confused, yet concerned look. John’s features immediately soften as he gazes fondly at his late dinner guest. “It’s okay, love. I’ll explain later. He was just leaving,” John says, standing up to pull out a chair for her. Sherlock rises, nearly dizzy from the restless swarm of emotions buzzing through his brain and all the things still left unsaid. He casts a nod in the lady’s direction—attractive, perfectly arranged bottle blonde hair, dead father, quite an inheritance from said father, friendly, well dressed, sensible shoes, handbag not name brand, eager to please but self-assured, kind yet tough, culinary prowess likely responsible for the little bit of John’s extra weight—and solemnly addresses John, “I hope to speak with you again soon, John. For what it’s worth, I _am_ sorry. About everything. I had no idea you would be this upset with me. Please forgive me.” John only nods his goodbye, which Sherlock accepts as a promise to consider his apology, before the dispirited detective retreats out onto the street.

Turning to look back through the window, Sherlock sees John gesturing through an explanation of the sudden appearance of the friend and former flatmate he thought to be dead while the blonde woman fusses over his bruised left hand. The cold night air stinging Sherlock’s skin reminds him to wind his blue scarf around his pale neck before he turns to head for 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock is disheartened that his reunion with John didn’t quite go to plan and, as he strolls along the oddly quiet street, he reassures himself that it will just take some time for John to sort out his conflicting feelings; Surely, he will eventually realize that nothing really has to change, and that the two of them can carry on their partnership as though they never missed a beat. Sherlock begrudgingly logs away in his mind palace John’s complaints of feeling left out and mistrusted on more than one occasion. Perhaps he has some things to sort out himself, as well.

Lost in thought, Sherlock doesn’t hear the hurried, approaching footsteps or the rather loud call of his own name until a hand grips his wool covered bicep and whirls him around. “ _Sher_ lock,” John pants, clearly having just jogged a few blocks to catch up with his once-dead-but-now-very-much-alive friend. “Look, I… if I didn’t say so already, I _am_ glad you’re…ya know, _not_ dead.” His smile is weak but, for the moment, completely unguarded, his warm blue eyes radiating unbridled joy and affection. Sherlock’s answering smile is the most brilliant John has ever seen on the face of his beloved consulting detective. “John, I am so sorry,” Sherlock apologizes again quietly, before John shakes his head. “I know, Sherlock. I’m still angry but I just wanted…. I have to get back. We’ll talk again soon, yeah?” Sherlock nods with a smile more luminous than the last.

John turns on his heel to head back to his date, and glances back over his shoulder to smile at Sherlock once more as he goes. Sherlock breathes in deeply, no longer feeling the sting of the frosty night air in his lungs. He lets out his breath in a chuckle, feeling a weight leave his broad shoulders. John still needs some convincing to rejoin him as his blogger but he doesn’t seem to need nudging in regards to their friendship, though there is still so much left unsaid. Sherlock turns in the direction of Baker Street once again, this time with a little more bounce in his step, a little more swish in his coat, and a lot more of something like hope flickering in his chest, sparking through his veins.  

Yes, he and John will continue their discussion soon. Sherlock fashions a new plan for winning back his partner in crime solving, one that will prove irresistible to Dr. John Hamish Watson, Man of Action. Reason and logic clearly won’t be enough though, Sherlock admits to himself with a smirk, it would be rather dull if that were all it took. No. A man like John—not that there _are_ any others like John—requires danger, adrenaline, the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins. He could never sit still, idly twiddling his thumbs, while Sherlock resumes saving London from the latest diabolical threats. The consulting detective will have to thoroughly remind the ex-army doctor of all the battles they’ve won together, side by side, and entice him with the perilous battles that still await them. When Sherlock next steps back out onto the battlefield, his blogger and best friend will be marching right along with him. 


End file.
